“Forget it happened?” He frowns.

I lift one shoulder in what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. “It was meant to be a one-off, right? Besides, it’s kind of a bad idea to get involved with a guy from the team my dad manages, you know?” I don’t want to open up a can of worms we might not be able to close if we allow ourselves to indulge in activities we shouldn’t. Kind of like the way addicts always say “Just one more hit,” I think Ryan Kingston could be my drug of choice.

“I don’t know that I’m going to be able to forget that night, but you’re right: it’s best if we keep it platonic.”

That bolsters my ego a little. “Shake on it?” I hold my hand out.

Slowly he clasps my hand in his much larger one. “We keep it platonic.”

“Deal.”

He’s still holding my hand, eyes locked on my face. Actually they’re locked on my lips.

I hear a crunch and the low hum of bass, which tells me a car has pulled into the driveway. “My dad’s home.”

“Oh crap. I really gotta go.” Kingston yanks me forward. I stumble and plaster my hands on his solid chest. I can feel his heart beating a staccato rhythm. His lips brush my cheek. “I promise I’ll do my best to keep it strictly platonic.”

He disappears out the back door before I can say anything else.

CHAPTER 6

STRIDES

Queenie

Things I have discovered over the course of the last few days: my dad loves paper and forms. I’ve also learned how to decipher the nearly illegible handwriting of nearly thirty players. I glance at Bishop Winslow’s paperwork—I’m almost at the end of the list, thank baby Jesus riding a freaking unicorn—and try to figure out what the hell he wrote in response to a rather arbitrary question pertaining to the off-season workouts. I’m pretty sure it’s pithy and a sexual innuendo, but I can’t be sure because his handwriting is atrocious.

A knock drags my tired eyes away from the form. It’s almost five, and I’m determined to finish inputting all this stuff before I leave for the day.

“Uh, hi, Queenie.” Kingston is standing in the middle of the doorway, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his khakis, eyes bouncing all over the room, pausing at the open door to my dad’s office and then shifting back to me.

“Hi, Kingston. Did you need to see Jake?”

“Jake?” He blinks a few times, as if he’s never heard the name before. “Oh, uh, no. I don’t need to . . . there’s a delivery.” He thumbs over his shoulder, and a guy whose head barely reaches Kingston’s shoulder comes into view.

Every interaction with Kingston since the first day has been awkward, to say the least. I’d be offended, but I honestly think he doesn’t know how to deal with this situation any better than I do.

The delivery guy squeezes past Kingston, who takes up the majority of the doorway with his broad shoulders, and holds out his electronic device and a stylus. “I just need you to sign here.”

“Are these the tablets I ordered?” I ask as I take the stylus from him and sign my name.

“Sure are. You ordered a lot of ’em.” He glances at my nameplate poised on the corner of my desk. “Queenie, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

“All right, well, thanks so much. I can take it from here,” Kingston says loudly and then drops a huge box on my desk, very close to the delivery guy’s pinkie. When the delivery guy doesn’t make a move to leave, Kingston says, “Have a nice day.” Following it with a fake-looking, close-lipped smile.

The delivery guy gives me a nod and Kingston the side-eye as he leaves the office.

I’d call him out on whatever that was, but I’m too excited about the delivery to care. I open my desk drawer and rummage around for a pair of scissors.

“How do you find anything in there?” Kingston leans on the box while I sift through the contents of the drawer.

“It’s my miscellaneous drawer.”

“It’s a mess.”

“Me and the drawer have a lot in common,” I mutter, and I finally find what I’m looking for. “Aha!” I produce a pair of craft scissors better suited for a five-year-old, but they’ll have to do. I elbow Kingston out of the way—he’s still hanging off the box—and attempt to use the cut-proof scissors to break through the tape. Unfortunately it’s completely ineffective, so I resort to picking at the edge. Sadly, I’ve been anxious lately—see the guy standing next to me, watching me fight to get into a cardboard box, for details—so I’ve been picking at my nails, and they’re pretty much stubs.

“Can I offer my assistance?” Sitting in Kingston’s palm is a utility knife.

“Why am I not the least bit surprised that you have one of those?” I nab it from his palm, then fight to get the blade out, because again, nail stubs aren’t great for traction. I finally manage to get it open and cut through the tape securing the box. I open the flaps and sift through the packing peanuts, grabbing hold of one of the packages. Styrofoam peanuts litter my desk as I pull the box free and squeal with excitement. “You are going to save my eyeballs and my sanity!” I kiss the package and hug it to my chest.

Kingston’s deep chuckle reminds me that I’m not alone, and that he’s just witnessed me talking to and kissing an inanimate object. I glance his way, ready to give him a little sass, but the words get stuck in my throat.

Because he’s full-on smiling, and it’s ridiculously beautiful. Particularly because there’s a tiny chip out of the corner of his front tooth, and for some reason, that slight imperfection is incredibly endearing. And sexy.

Of course, this is the very moment that a highly inconvenient memory also surfaces. One where he was wearing the same smile. Because he managed to give me not one, but three consecutive orgasms with his incredibly competent mouth.

Our gazes lock, and it feels like some kind of magnetic field prevents us from looking away. His smile fades and his tongue peeks out, skimming the imperfect tooth.

“Is everything okay out here? I thought I heard—oh, Kingston, hi.” My dad breaks the spell. “What’s this?” He motions to the giant box taking up more than half my desk.

“So, remember the other day, when I was asking you about the technology budget?”

“Uhhhh . . .”

“You said you had no idea and that I should ask Alex,” I remind him. I also asked when he was clearly in the middle of something, on purpose.

“That sounds about right.”

“Well, turns out we have a pretty sizable technology budget, and Alex has all kinds of connections because of all of his previous endorsement campaigns, so I managed to get a set of tablets for the entire team at a highly discounted price. All we have to do is tag the company in a few social media posts. Isn’t that awesome?”

“Um, yes?” My dad rubs the back of his neck and glances at Kingston, as if he’s going to help out here. “Why exactly do we need a set of tablets for the whole team?”

“Because you’re using entirely too much paper. It’s like a tree graveyard in your office, and every time we have a meeting I have to make four million copies. Also, these guys have worse penmanship than a class of preschoolers.” I turn to Kingston. “Except you. Your handwriting is extremely legible.”

“Thanks.” He grins again, and my brain shorts out for a second.

“You’re welcome,” I finally whisper-breathe. “Anyway, once I get all the documents on file as PDFs, they’ll be able to complete the forms via tablet, and I won’t have to manually input anything, which will free up my time, save my sanity, and preserve at least one forest somewhere. See why I’m so excited?”

“This seems like a lot of work, and won’t you have to teach everyone how to use them? And me? I’ll have to learn how to do all that stuff.” I can see that my dad’s starting to panic.

“I promise it’ll be simple, and I’ll give you a tutorial. I can even make a video for the guys. I’ll walk you through the whole process. You’re working with a bunch of kinesthetic learners, and this helps make everything accessible and interactive.”

“It’s actually a great idea,” Kingston chimes in. I’m not sure if he’s trying to save my ass, or he really thinks it’s a great idea, but I appreciate the support.

“I’m sure Lou-Ellen was a great assistant, and I know she was lovely, but you’re still stuck in 1999, and the rest of the world is two decades ahead of you. I know it seems like a lot, but honestly, I’m about to make your life a hell of a lot easier.”

“Okay.” My dad blows out a breath and nods. “If you think this is going to make things easier, then I’m game, as long as it doesn’t interfere with any of your other duties.”

“It won’t. I promise.”

He looks to Kingston. “Did you need to see me?”

“Oh, no, sir. I was helping Queenie. I should head out.” He thumbs over his shoulder and takes a step toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At practice. Have a nice night. Bye, Queenie.” He awkward waves, his face having turned bright red once again, and darts down the hall.